Key Issues

My Little Brother

It was impossible to keep a stitch of clothing on the cherubic little devil until he was near four years old, save his cowboy boots and gun holster, which he wore 24/7.

When he reached age five, my asinine parental unit of the paternal persuasion bought the lad a BB gun, with the understanding that if he EVER shot a person, it would be gone forever.

Birds must be really boring moving targets. Because one day, as I rode my bike down our long drive, the little booger followed me with his scope from the center of the front yard. I didn't sweat it though, had to have been fifty feet.

So, he got me in the thigh. Luckily, I was wearing jeans, and there was no bullet to pick out, but there was one helluva goose egg. Oh yeah, and it friggin hurt!

Not to worry though, he didn't get that gun back 'til the about the middle of the next DAY! [I don't use the term asinine lightly.]

It was at least a few weeks before he shot anyone again, though. This time himself... in his ear cartilage, thus beginning the first of many trips the boy would make to the ER over the next decade or so. RE the BB lodged in the fold of his ear: he was an adult before he admitted that he had just wanted to see if he could cock and shoot with his big toe.

While I was a low maintenance child, low energy, laid back, shy to the level of social retardedness, a thinker, an artist, a sassy-mouthed debater and a self-motivator academically, he was the complete opposite... item for item.

When we fought, I would coach, "Use your words," even as his six years younger ass would beat my older and taller one into the ground.

The rod was not spared.

My mother kept a freshly groomed switch between the logs in the wall behind the refrigerator. It would last half a day or so before he'd pull a chair over, grab the switch, and shred it into toothpicks. Obviously, this was a switchworthy offense, and the woman always had a spare.

He'd see her go for it, though, and he'd run. The punishment worsened because of that, but it never stopped him.

In the next house, when we upgraded from country cabin to big 'ol two story brick traditional, we had a formal front staircase off of the Foyer, as well as a back staircase off of the Breakfast Room.

Running was more fun then. He'd run up one stairwell and down the other to evade punishment, fast, with this amused grin on his face as he whooped and hollered Daffy Duck style , "WOOHOO! Woohoo [laughter] WOOHOO! Woohoo [laughter]...!"

I tried to teach him how to play chess... he threw the pieces across the room. I tried to teach him how to treat the ladies... he hid under my bed and watched my friends change into their swimsuits.

As I was stealing from the liquor cabinet at age 17, he was as well, at 11. As I was a bridesmaid in my cousin's wedding earlier that year, he was slinking around the tables, finishing off unattended glasses of wine.

It was later that year that my parents divorced.

He had never really had a decent father figure to begin with, but I don't think he actually realized that until all hell broke loose.

Shortly thereafter, he began hanging with an older group, who gladly supplied the cute and charming youth with alcohol, cigarettes and pot. And by age 13, big sis embarrassed the hell out of him, as I felt the need drill into his head the seriousness of STD's, even as I hoped there was no need for it...yet.

The next year he was sent to a wilderness camp in Utah, one of the brutal ones that reporters like to expose. His shiny shoulder-length locks were shaved, and he thinned considerably. I wanted him out, but was impotent as a mere sibling. Finally, my mother went in person and extracted him.

Thankfully, he found the determination to continue his education, without dropping out at 16, as the state allows. He did, however, manage to earn himself a probation officer before he managed to earn himself a diploma.

Nonetheless, the diploma was his.

And I had had high hopes. Apparently, so had he. He just defined "high" a wee bit differently.

He did manage to secure a job in construction, and was under the influence of nothing more than Mountain Dew, allegedly, when he flipped his truck during his lunch hour.

We almost lost him then.

After an agonizing wait at the hospital, I was allowed to see my spleenless brother, with an eight inch sutured incision running sternum to navel, cuts all over his face, and I'll never forget his beautiful eyelashes, blood-matted.

But he made it.

And even as I had hoped that he then realized the value of his own life, his next two hobbies were pool hustling and bar brawling, which tend to go hand in hand... As does serving a little time.

Finally, the wild child settled into a bit of a routine, working within the family business, and even maintaining a relationship or two.

And despite his roughened demeanor when confronted with the drunk and the toothless, he's always been a mild one any other time, a cutie, a passionate flirt, and a gentle spirit.

One of the good guys. Looks like Johnny Depp, and could charm the pants off a nun.

Of course, I've always wanted the best for him, always painting him a promising future. But unfortunately, I seem to have more faith in him than he has in himself. And I fear that he is now stumbling on yet another one of life's many hurdles.

I have been quiet on my page this week. He has been on my mind.